


all the ties that bind

by breidaia



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Healing Powers, Injury, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Unwanted soul bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 04:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breidaia/pseuds/breidaia
Summary: The block doesn’t always work perfectly, but mostly…mostly it does.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s fast become one of the League’s favourite jokes. Once the clock has run down and the massacre’s over, the analysts throw up their hands and say: “The Flyers just seem to get into their _heads_.” Then they laugh, and Sid’s pretty sure they’ll never get tired of it, because everyone knows that a bond between a Flyer and a Penguin is less likely than expansion on Mars.

Whenever the press brings it up, Sid always smiles and shakes his head as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. What else is he supposed to do? It’s not like he’s going to tell them Claude _could_ be in Sid’s head, if he wanted to be.

\---

Sid doesn’t feel it when it happens, two hundred miles away on the other side of the state. He hears about it like everyone else in the Penguins’ locker room, forty-eight hours after the fact from a news clip online. Hushed whispers snake through the air: “accident” and “shattered leg” and “out the whole season, at least.” He can feel the set of his jaw, clenched like a trap, and forces himself to relax. The season hasn’t even _started_ yet, Jesus.

It feels strange in a way Sid’s never gotten used to. It’s like everyone and their grandmother knows as much about Sid as he does himself, and in a way, it’s true. Claude is supposed to be an inextricable part of him, and here he is, knowing nothing more than Geno or Tanger or Flower. He strips out of his equipment and moves around like nothing’s happened, like he wouldn’t be feeling exactly what Claude is feeling right now if he decided to take that step.

The block doesn’t always work perfectly, but mostly…mostly it does.

The question is: what does he do _now_?

\---

In the end, it’s really not much of a question at all: he does the only thing he really _can_ do, the only thing he thinks he could really live with himself for doing. He packs an overnight bag, locks his front door, and drives the four hours to Philadelphia. It’s worth the extra time to avoid flying; he doesn’t want anyone at the airport questioning why the hell he’s going to Philly. He and Claude have worked hard enough to keep their bond under wraps. He’s not about to blow it now.

Ever since that night the bond had suddenly snapped into place, just a few days after the lockout ended over two years ago, they’ve avoided the topic as much as possible. Driving down a highway in Pennsylvania with only his own thoughts to keep him company, Sid is acutely aware that most people would find that more than a little odd. Bonds aren’t exactly rare, but in most corners of the globe they’re considered sacred. Still, Sid has heard stories about soul mates who have managed to at least partially block their bond, shifting it into the furthest corners of their consciousness and mostly stifling it with a wall of negligence. He and Claude aren’t a complete anomaly. No one exactly knows how bonds form, but they’re permanent and irreversible, and just because they always, _always_ seem to denote something immutable in one soul that speaks to the other…well, that doesn’t mean they’re always welcome. The studies show that as long as both partners are on the same page, a block can be maintained almost indefinitely with only minimal slippage of thoughts and emotions.

Sid can still feel the blinding disbelief when he realized who was suddenly and curiously nudging at his thoughts and the answering shock of distaste as Claude figured it out a split second later. He remembers the stilted, silent conversation that followed, thoughts terse as they negotiated the terms of their mutual privacy. He remembers hurling the words “ _just stay out of my head!_ ” into the recesses of his mind, and Claude’s derisive “ _with pleasure._ ” They have their arrangement, which amounts to pretending that the bond doesn’t exist, and neither of them have ever reopened the matter.

Sid guesses it’s worked for them so far. But sometimes, he wonders what would have happened if they’d approached it differently. Sometimes, when the block slips, he gets little glimpses of the mind that’s supposed to be tied to his. Joy at the icy brush of cool air at the rink. Anger and heartbreak when a playoff run ends. The quiet contentment of a lazy day spent with family.

Sometimes, when he’s very sure the block is working and he’s alone, sequestered in his own mind where Claude can’t catch his thoughts by accident, he’s even willing to admit that he might be able to see why they were bond compatible in the first place.

\---

He stops to text Claude when he’s a little over halfway there, pulling up a number he almost never uses. All he sends is, _I’ll be there in a couple of hours_. He thinks about adding something else, and decides against it, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He’s not really sure what else to say.

In some ways he knows it would be easier to just dispense with the block for a moment, but they have an agreement, and he’s not about to be the one to break it, not when he’s almost to Philadelphia anyways. Claude would probably hate the thought of Sid in his head right now, when he’s vulnerable. Besides, Sid doesn’t know what Claude might be on for the pain. Whatever it is, it would bleed through at least a little. Really, he’s impressed that it isn’t bleeding through anyway, that Claude is managing to hold the block in place so firmly. Sleep, unconsciousness—for some reason, those don’t affect the block, but emotion? Pain? Those seem to make them more susceptible to slipping, and Sid can’t imagine the effort Claude is putting into keeping his pain contained.

Sid’s not entirely sure he could do it if their positions were reversed.

\---

It’s starting to get dark by the time Sid puts his car in park and makes the short trek up to Claude’s front door. It takes a while for anyone to answer, and Sid frowns, because it probably means that Claude is alone. He really shouldn’t be, but he’s probably cleared everyone out for this meeting.

Sid can hear a few rhythmic thumps and some muffled cursing before the door finally swings open. Claude doesn’t say anything when he sees Sid standing in his doorway. He’s leaning heavily on crutches and Sid notices, somewhat clinically, that his eyes are strained around the edges with the pain and anger and disappointment that always attend a long-term injury. Sid’s made a few well-placed calls. He knows there’s no way Claude will be back on the ice anytime soon.

Or, well, just the one way, which is why Sid’s here in the first place.

Claude finally speaks. “I haven’t been projecting. So if you’re here to bitch about the pain, you can just waddle back to Pittsburgh, because it’s not my fault.” His voice is exhausted and laced with pain, so much so that he doesn’t even laugh at his own stupid penguin joke.

Sid can’t decide if he’s serious—if he really doesn’t know why Sid is here or if he’s just trying to maintain a façade, so he opts to take Claude’s words at face value. He doesn’t want to get into an argument with the other man. He just wants to get this over with and go home. “That’s not…no. I can’t feel it at all.”

He doesn’t say anything else right away, and they stand awkwardly for a minute, separated only by the doorframe. It feels like a thousand miles.

“May I?” Sid finally asks stiffly, nodding at the entryway. Claude gives a funny shrug, all he’s really capable of doing around his crutches. When he turns and begins to make his way down the hall, he doesn’t shut the door and Sid thinks it’s probably safe to follow him in.

When they reach the living room, Sid trailing slowly being Claude, Claude maneuvers into a position from which he can ease himself onto the sofa. Sid hovers for a long moment. He wonders if he should just sit down, but he’s not actually here to be an asshole. If this were Geno, or Flower…

“Can I get you anything?” He’s pretty sure his voice is neutral.

Claude worries his bottom lip between his teeth as if he’s wondering whether Sid is genuinely asking. Or maybe he’s just not sure if he wants to be accepting help from someone who, in some ways at least, is an enemy, someone who could have unimpeded access to Claude’s every thought anytime he wanted. Finally, Claude fixes his eyes on a cushion that’s been squished into the far corner of the sofa. “Could you pass me the pillow?” He says the words almost as if they’re a peace offering.

When Sid obeys, Claude just holds the pillow for a moment, kneading it distractedly between his hands. On the off chance that he’s asked for it just to spite Sid, Sid just stares at him until he sighs and shoves it behind him, leaning back against it. “Happy?” His fingers are shifting restlessly against his leg, now.

“Ecstatic,” Sid replies dryly as he settles himself down on the arm of the sofa that’s furthest from Claude. He angles his body slightly towards the other man so that he can better read his reactions.

“So if the block isn’t slipping, why are you here?” Sid can tell that Claude is trying to sound nonchalant, but his shoulders are tense as he drums his fingers against his good leg. “Were you so concerned you couldn’t stay away?” He’s trying for sarcasm. “Or did you want to rub it in?”

Sid ignores the sarcasm and decides not to grace the insult with an answer. If Claude truly believed that last one, if he truly thought that of Sid, he wouldn’t have even let him in the door.

“If we open the bond for a few hours, we can heal your leg before the season starts,” Sid says matter-of-factly.

Claude doesn’t respond for a long time, and Sid’s beginning to wonder if he even heard him. When he speaks, Claude’s eyes are cautious, but the fidgeting has stopped, as if his body isn’t sure how to react to Sid’s words. As if he’s been afraid to wonder if Sid would actually offer. “If we do, we’ll be bonded.”

“We’re already bonded.” Sid fights to keep his words indifferent.

“You know what I mean,” Claude says, frustration bleeding into his words. “It’s different. Keeping thoughts and emotions out, that’s one thing. Once we’ve transferred energy….” He scrubs his hands through his hair. “That’s different,” he says again. “It’s harder to block, after.”

“We’ve done okay so far,” Sid says firmly. “If anyone can manage it, I’m sure we can.” In brief flashes, when the block has slipped, he’s felt the strength in Claude’s mind. Between the two of them, they’ll find enough willpower to maintain a block if they really want to.

“Is that a ‘no’?” Sid asks carefully, and he’s not really sure how he feels about the possibility.

“It’s a ‘don’t bitch at me if you turn out to be wrong’,” Claude snaps. “Of course it’s not a ‘no’.” He hesitates for a moment. “But for real, Sid. You have to know the bond might not fully close.”

“Has it ever really been closed?” Sid asks. For long periods of time, it was, yeah. But the next slip was always there, just on the horizon. The possibility that any moment there could be another mind gliding along your own…sometimes it felt like the bond might as well be open, with the way you felt like you had to always watch your own thoughts. “We’re talking about your season. Maybe even your career.” He spreads his hands. “Up to you, Claude. I’m not going to push any more.”

“Yeah,” Claude finally says roughly. “Okay. As long as you’re sure.”

“Okay,” Sid says, and then pauses, because there’s something he needs to know, even if he’s not sure he’ll like the answer. Technically he doesn’t need to ask, could just dig the answer out of Claude’s mind, but that wouldn’t just be crossing a line; it would annihilate the entire concept of a line. “Can I ask you a question, first?”

Claude laughs a little and shakes his head. “Sure, why not? What’s a little question between soul mates?” 

“Did you actually think I wouldn’t come? That I wouldn’t offer?” Sid wonders what it says about the both of them if he did.

Claude shrugs, and his face is blank.

“I thought you knew I would.”

“I wasn’t sure. I thought…maybe. I didn’t want to just assume.” He looks at Sid, considering. “Would you have been sure of me?”

He likes to think he would have been, but really, Sid doesn’t know if he can answer.

It’s a lot of faith to put in someone.

\---

In the end it isn’t really all that difficult, though it _is_ painstakingly slow, pun intended. The bond isn’t hard to open at all, and it doesn’t take long to figure out the energy transfer, for all that they’ve obviously never done it before. The actual how-to is supposed to come innately, and it really does. And Sid had done plenty of research in the beginning, when he was still trying to figure out why the bond had formed in the first place.

They need physical contact, so Sid faintly brushes his fingers against the slope of Claude’s shoulder. When Claude doesn’t automatically shake him off, Sid presses harder, moulding his hand to the muscles curved beneath skin and t-shirt. The edge of his thumb brushes against bare, freckled collarbone where the shirt doesn’t quite reach. After a few seconds, he lightly rests his other hand against Claude’s broken leg, taking care not to jostle him.

From there it’s just a slow transfer of energy, a gift of strength and stamina and _power_ that Sid has to consciously siphon to Claude through their bond. Slowly, slowly Claude’s leg starts to heal.

\---

Sid’s lying spread out on the floor in exhaustion. His mind feels empty and colourless without the bright bursts of Claude’s mind underlying his own, and Sid has always understood how that could become addicting, a new kind of normal that makes anything else seem unbearable. He’d felt it in the beginning, back when they had first closed off the bond, that sudden and resonating loneliness within his own head. He’s felt it in the interim, whenever they accidentally let the block slip. He feels it now, sharp and aching.

God, he doesn’t even really _like_ Claude, though he thinks that he could. _Knows_ that he could, can almost feel it on the horizon. It scares him a little to think of what it would be like if he did. It’s probably what makes him ask the question, angling his head towards Claude, the hardwood pressed nice and cool against his cheek. Claude is there beside him but he isn’t looking at Sid, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the bare expanse of ceiling above their heads. “When you were a kid, did you ever think about having a soul mate? About who you would want it to be?”

It takes Claude some time to answer, and he still doesn’t turn to look at Sid. “I wanted someone who loved hockey.” A pause. “And I wanted someone who could love me.”

Sid rolls his head back until he, too, is staring at the ceiling once again. Even with the block back in place he can feel the sincerity in Claude’s voice, and, well, honesty deserves honesty. “I wanted someone who would push me to become better.”

It’s silent for several long moments before Claude finally turns to look at him. “Are you okay? Should I call a doctor?”

Sid isn’t certain he can gather the energy to even roll his head in a “no” gesture against the floor. “Just tired.” He pointedly doesn’t mention the emptiness in his mind. Claude knows. He must feel it too. He does manage to angle his head towards Claude again, because the hardwood really does feel nice against his cheek. “And hungry.”

“I’ll order you a pizza.”

“Make it two.” He considers the drain in his muscles and the empty, gnawing pit of his stomach. “For now.”

\---

Sid is full and mostly satisfied, sprawled on the couch beside Claude now. He wonders if he should be leaving. He almost laughs at the thought that this might be kind of like a one night stand. He doesn’t want to analyze the part of him that doesn’t really want to go. His thoughts still echo faintly in the cavern of his own mind. They’ve never been connected for that long before.

They’ve also never spent this much time in each other’s company. It’s not the worst thing Sid’s ever gone through.

He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“You should stay the night,” Claude tells him. “It’s really late.”

The cautious agreement that Sid feels unfolding within himself isn’t entirely because he doesn’t want to face even a cab ride to the nearest hotel.

“Thanks.”

“You could stay a few days, if you wanted.” Claude isn’t looking at him, but Sid feels the slightest brush against his own mind. It’s not a full connection; it’s more like a question, and Claude doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.

Sid has practice the day after tomorrow. He really shouldn’t.

Then again, Claude _is_ his soul mate, for all that they’ve tried to ignore it for so long. Two years ago, the thought almost made him want to choke. That’s softened, over time, until he can sit here, wondering what it would be like to try. Wondering what’s changed.

“We should probably really talk. It’s…it’s been a long time since it happened.”

“Yeah,” Sid says, and he makes his decision. “I’d like to talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos on the first part of this. It was originally intended to be a much longer work, but I was really struggling with it and so decided to just post the first part as a shorter, standalone story. After some time time away it doesn't seem nearly as daunting, so I hope you enjoy the future parts of this and thank you for reading!

Sid doesn't end up staying for more than the one night, and not just because of practice, though that's certainly a factor. It all feels like it might be a little too much, too fast. He's not going back on his determination to see how things go, to see if maybe whatever force or magic lies behind their bond knew what it was doing after all. But it's taken two years and a major injury to even get them to this point, and Sid sees no reason to rush things, especially with the pre-season about to start in just a few days. 

He goes home late the next afternoon, after they've had a chance to sleep like the dead for about twelve hours straight and then talk. He's mostly settled back within his own mind again, but everything else feels kind of new and maybe a little weird. It doesn't matter how candid they've tried to be with each other--Sid still doesn't quite feel like he knows what's expected of him.

They've settled on a middle-of-the-road approach for the moment, but Sid is under no illusions: it's not a neutral one. They've agreed that neither of them is willing to consider dropping the block completely, to risk throwing the bond wide open and practically living in each other's minds from here on out. But talking? Making an effort to learn about each other, to get to know each other beyond the caricatures they've each erected in their own minds? Those seem like they might just be doable. 

So Sid goes home and on the drive, he tries self-consciously not to think about the cellphone in his pocket and the number he's barely ever used. A part of him wants to laugh hysterically at the thought of starting to use it now, as if Claude is just another acquaintance. They'll text. Maybe they'll call each other sometimes. They'll keep in contact and see how things go. And if the block starts to slip more frequently, which even Sid has to admit could possibly happen...well, they've agreed that they'll deal with that on a case-by-case basis.

\---

They last five days, and years later, Claude tells Sid that he's surprised it took that long. ("I tried to tell you," he says. "You wouldn't listen." Sid feigns outrage, but Claude's right: he did try to warn him.)

The first time it happens, it’s just a brief flash, an icy brush of cool air that Sid can almost feel on his own face and the exhilaration of ice beneath his skates. He feels a laugh of joy that originates with Claude and is so overwhelming that it threatens to bubble up within his own throat, because it _worked_. It worked, and it's as if he's never been injured, and Sid knows that Claude doesn't think he'll ever stop being amazed at that.

Sid's automatic response, built over two long years, is to slam the block immediately back into place. He's maybe a little too forceful, because his thoughts recoil just a little, like an elastic band. Claude's mind is gone almost as soon as it had appeared, but the memory of his joy lingers for what feels like hours.

They text a couple of times about innocuous things, but they skirt around the slip. Sid doesn't really know what to say about it, and he thinks the same might be true for Claude, though he probably shouldn't assume, shouldn't place words in Claude's mouth. Or his mind, or whatever. Sid manages, just barely, to refrain from congratulating Claude on not telling him "I told you so." He thinks, hesitant and a little unsure, that if Claude's not going to be snide about it, maybe Sid shouldn't be, either.

\---

The second time the block slips, it’s three days later and Sid’s ambling about the kitchen making breakfast, the television on in the background. It’s no surprise when an interview with Claude comes on. People are naturally curious about his healed leg; everyone knows, now, that Claude has a soulmate, and everyone wants to know why he won’t talk about it.

He wonders what the media would actually say.

_“They’d probably pass out,”_ are the words that automatically weave their way through his mind, and Sid can feel the moment when they both realize what’s happened. Sid's first instinct is still to immediately fumble for the block, but just as he's about to force the connection closed, he stops for a moment. He waits, warily, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights.

Finally, because they've both agreed to try, he offers, _"At least then we could run away."_

He can feel Claude give a small smile, and the block carefully slides back into place.

\---

As the days pass and the preseason gets under way, it starts happening with more frequency. Sometimes, if one of them is in the middle of something, the block promptly goes back up. Sometimes, they stop for a moment and carefully exchange a few more words first. But every time--a day later, or two days, or sometimes a little more--it slips again.

“ _Needs more salt_ ,” Claude says as Sid lifts a forkful of eggs to his mouth one morning. Sid scowls, because he's right, and for a moment he's caught between reaching for the salt shaker--which he had just been about to do anyway--and stubbornly ignoring him.

“ _Bit more to the right_ ,” Sid says without thinking during a practice, and Claude clenches his jaw, because yes, he knows exactly why that pass went wide, thank you very much.

\---

Sid's lying in bed, drifting in that place between sleep and full consciousness when he can suddenly feel Claude, wide awake, running plays in his mind as if he's counting sheep. Sid feels the burst of recognition when Claude realizes that Sid's there, but he keeps going for a minute. Hazily, Sid wonders what it's going to be like to play Claude, now. It's not the first time he's wondered.

 _"Imagine if we were on the same team,"_ Claude sends in his direction. _"We'd be killing it. No one could stop us."_

Sid rolls over onto one side and mashes his face into his pillow. He sends a muffled, _"Go to sleep"_ as he tries to slip the block back into the place and clings on to the fading vestiges of drowsiness. He's just groggy enough that he fumbles the block a little bit.

_"Don't you ever think about it?"_ Claude presses.

_“That would be cheating."_

He can feel Claude shrug in his mind. _"It was just a question."_ His presence fades, and Sid flops back over onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling in frustration, sleep well and truly gone for the moment.

"We _would_ be killing it," he murmurs as he finally begins to drop off to sleep again. He's pretty sure he's said the words out loud and not within his own mind, but regardless, Claude's not there to hear them anyway.


End file.
